


Orange Rolls

by FanFictionaries



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Baking, Dreams, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:27:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23633830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanFictionaries/pseuds/FanFictionaries
Summary: Sometimes a single recipe can bring back a world of memories.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 66





	Orange Rolls

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a request in my Tumblr inbox for a sweet, fluffy baking one shot with Bucky. I was inspired by an actual recipe from my great great grandmother. 
> 
> I also recommend listening to this song while reading: https://open.spotify.com/track/7pR7yPgbYcipmTUHT5g68p?si=uegHkhwpTH2SuKEFPzqOBw
> 
> If you'd like to request your own story/headcannon/anything please feel free to hit me up on tumblr @FanFictionaries.

**_Step 1. Dissolve 2 yeast cakes in ¼ cup warm water._ **

The room was alight in the glow of soft warm sun. Nestled in your blankets, you rubbed the sleep from your eyes and yawned widely, stretching and turning to snuggle into the familiar warmth of Bucky. Firm muscle, soft skin, ticklish arm hair – all missing. Instead only cool sheets, drawn back on his side of the bed. You didn’t have to check the time to know it was early, but you rolled over to the bedside table to check your phone anyways. Five AM. Much too early to be up on a Sunday morning, even for your early bird of a super soldier. Rolling onto your back, you stayed quiet, attempting to hear any signs of life in the small apartment. Perhaps he’d only gotten up to use the bathroom. The sound of heavy items falling and a string of curses coming from the kitchen brushed away the thought. Jumping out of bed, you pulled one of Bucky’s large sweatshirts over your head and stepped into your slippers.

When you rounded the corner, the first thing you noticed was the expanse of your pantry laid out onto the floor. The second thing you noticed was Bucky, sat cross-legged in the middle of the array of flours, sugars, and spices, head in his hands. You knew this look. This crumpled, defeated look that so few had the privilege to witness. Everyone saw the stoic, cold Winter Soldier. So little saw Bucky Barnes, a kid from Brooklyn. Tiptoeing around the spilled bags of sugar, flour, and sprinkles, you stood beside him, leaning over and placing a gentle hand to his back, rubbing soft, slow circles.

“Nightmares?” you asked, moving your hand up to thread through his freshly cropped hair, scraping your fingernails against his scalp. Bucky tilted his head back, leaning into your touch like a cat leaving its scent. You could see the telltale signs; red rimmed eyes, pink tipped nose, raw bitten lips.

“No, no nightmares. I uh…I had a dream about my mom,” Bucky answered, the end of his sentence biting off in a short, harsh laugh. You held your breath. It flattered you that Bucky felt comfortable enough with you to share the gory, ugly details of his past – the things that kept him up at night. The things he thought you couldn’t love him for. But never had he talked about his family. The only memories of his past life you ever heard were the ones Steve brought up, the rowdy stories of two young men up to no good in 40’s Brooklyn. Yet on his own, Bucky remained silent about his life before the war. You never pushed him. It would be cruel of you to press a subject that was most likely too painful for him to think about. Now, the waver in his voice and the tears that welled in his eyes told you that that assumption had been correct.

“I was sittin’ in my old kitchen and uh—” he sniffed, taking a moment to clear his throat “—it was Easter. I know it was Easter ‘cause ma made orange rolls. She only ever made them on Easter. And it—it was the best damn orange roll I’ve ever had. I woke up and I remembered Steve brought over some boxes of my family’s old things, stuff Rebecca left behind I guess, and I found this.”

In his hand he held an aged recipe card, stained from years of use. The yellowed card stock was bent and torn, but the writing still held clear, thick and messy in some places as if it had been traced over multiple times. It was well used. Well loved. At the top, clearly labeled in large looped font, were the words ‘ _Orange Rolls’._

“I couldn’t get the taste out of my mouth. I figured I’d try to make them, but I wasn’t much for the kitchen back then, let alone now. And—and you don’t have any yeast cakes. I can’t make them without yeast cakes (Y/N). It’s the first ingredient and I can’t—” The words broke off, catching in the back of his throat. He wrapped his arms around your legs, clinging to them like a broken child. Rolling off of him in waves, the permeating sadness and longing washed over you, breaking your heart with each hit.

“I don’t think they make yeast cakes anymore Bucky—” you spoke slowly, choosing your words carefully. At the statement, you felt his arms tighten in a panic. You were quick to placate him “—but I have some dry active yeast that I think should work. Why don’t we clean this up and then see what we can do, yea?”

**_Step 2. Warm 1 cup milk, add ½ cup sugar, 3 Tbsp shortening, 2 tsp salt._ **

Turns out, a single yeast cake is equal to approximately 4 and ½ tsps of dry active yeast. After this joyous announcement and your internal praise to Google’s ever living library of knowledge, Bucky was up on his feet, standing in front of the stove over a saucepan of milk.

“How do you know when it’s warm?” he asked, looking curiously down at the pan of milk in front of him.

“Stick your finger in it, if it feels warm, then it’s probably warm,” you answered sarcastically, reaching into the depths of your pantry for the Crisco. A rarely used, but very important staple for any kitchen.

“What? I’m not sticking my finger in it,” said Bucky, watching with rapt horror as you walked up beside him and dipped the tip of your pointer finger into the warm, white liquid.

“I think it’s warm enough to put the sugar in. What?” you asked him when you saw the look of exasperation on your boyfriend’s face.

“You put your finger in the milk.”

“And? My hands are clean. You watched me wash them. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of catching cooties. Cause I hate to break it to you but, you probably already have them.” Lifting on your toes, you placed a sweet, soft kiss to his lips. Catching you around the waist before you could drop back down, Bucky kissed you back with slow purpose.

“Is that right?” he asked teasingly, breaking away from your lips ever so slightly.

“Afraid so,” you murmured against the soft, heat of his mouth.

**_Step 3. Beat in 3 eggs, 2 cups flour, and add dissolved yeast. Let rise for 1 hour._ **

The wet dough sat on the counter; a kitchen towel draped lightly over it. By this time, the sun had fully crested over the city skyline, pouring blinding light into the small space of your kitchen. The two of you sat at the kitchen island, sipping your coffee as you waited for the dough to rise. Your bare feet sat, propped in Bucky’s lap, the thumb of his metal hand absentmindedly rubbing the arch of your right foot as he spoke animatedly.

“You should have seen her. Becca was so mad; I thought her head was going to spin all the way around!” laughed Bucky, the creases at the corners of his eyes making a warm and welcome appearance as he regaled a story that you had never heard before.

“Well that’s what she got for touching your stuff,” you said, taking Bucky’s side in the long forgotten sibling argument.

“Thank you! See, you get it. I wish I could say the same for my parents. My pa gave me such a lickin’ and then ma sent me off to bed with no dinner. All for putting worms in her bed!”

“Did she get in trouble for letting your pet frog loose?” you asked, enraptured by the story.

“No! Do you know how hard it was to find a frog in _Brooklyn_?”

“Impossible. I don’t even know how you did it.”

“Well, really it was Steve that found him—”

“Him? Did _he_ have a name?” you interrupted him with a cheeky smile.

Bucky scratched the back of his head, a light pinkness appearing on his cheeks, “He might of…”

“Aaaand?” you pressed, wanting to know the name even more at the prospect of it being embarrassing.

“I don’t know if I wanna’ tell you. I think you’re just gonna laugh.”

“I won’t! I promise!” you exclaimed, drawing an invisible cross over you heart.

Bucky looked at you skeptically, a raised eye trained on you before answering, “Fine. It was Mr. Ribbits.”

You tried your hardest, really you did. But a snort escaped your nose before you could stop it and then Bucky was playfully pushing your legs off of his lap and turning away from you, “See! I knew you’d laugh. You’re such a bad liar!”

“I’m sorry!” You reached for him, still attempting to stifle your giggles as you pulled at Bucky’s arm, turning him back towards you. “Really, I am. I think Mr. Ribbits is a respectable name.”

“Thank you. It is.” His tone was resolute, but it didn’t take a trained eye to spot the small smile working its way onto the corner of his lips. “But no, Becca didn’t get in trouble. In fact, my pa said I was too old to be picking up animals off the street anyways.”

“How old were you?”

“I think I was about ten.”

**_Step 4. Add 3 cups flour and beat in with spoon. Let raise 1 and ½ hours._ **

“We have to wait again?!”

“Yea, we have to let the dough rise, otherwise the rolls will be tough and there won’t be enough to roll out,” you explained, placing the towel over the bowl once again and reaching for your empty coffee cups.

“But I thought we just did that,” said Bucky in confusion. You tried not to smile at him, but the cute little scrunch of his eyebrows made you a weak and gooey fool.

“Baking is more of an art in patience than skill. Especially any kind of bread, babe. Don’t worry, once they’re done, they’ll be more than worth the wait,” you reassured him, patting his cheek gently.

“Well…can we make something else while we wait? What’s your favorite thing to bake?” Bucky asked, his innocent tone making him sound like a wide-eyed child.

You smiled, big and happy, and walked over to the recipe box that sat atop the fridge. Taking it down and setting in on the counter in front of you, you dug into the baking section and produced a handful of recipe cards.

“Take your pick soldier.”

**_Step 5. Roll out dough and spread on icing – 2 cups sugar, 1 orange: rind grated and juiced, 6 Tbsp melted butter. Roll, cut, and place in muffin tin. Cover and let raise 20 mins._ **

“Stop eating all the batter!” you scolded, whacking the back of Bucky’s hand with a spatula. The impact had no effect, the sneaking man having had the forethought to use his metal hand.

“If I wasn’t supposed to eat it this way, then why is it so delicious?” he argued, sneaking another finger into the chocolate concoction and bringing it to his mouth.

“Because it’s five pounds of sugar and fat,” you laughed, grabbing hold of his wrist and bringing the chocolate covered finger to your mouth instead. “Also – how is it gross for me to dip my finger into the milk but you can have these grubby little paws buried deep in my brownie batter?”

The question caught Bucky off guard. Raising his hand up, he wiggled the vibranium fingers in your face, “Metal arm – they’re, uh, sterile.”

You guffawed, absolutely tickled by the lame response, “Sterile. Okay. Well, preheat the oven Mr. Sterile.”

Using the spatula, you scraped the double chocolate chip brownie batter into the greased pan. Strong arms wrapped around your waist and a head came to rest on your shoulder, watching you scrape the sides of the bowl. Nuzzling his face into your neck, he placed a gentle kiss just below your ear.

“You know, you’re getting pretty mouthy these days. I have half a mind to take you over my knee,” Bucky growled playfully.

Before your brain could connect with what your body was doing, the spatula had already lifted away from the bowl and made contact with the side of his face. The wet splat of batter to skin sounded plainly through the kitchen. Releasing you from his hold, Bucky stepped back, his expression vacant and shell-shocked. Dropping the spatula back into the bowl, you covered your face with your hands as you tried not to lose it. He looked positively ridiculous. Chocolate covered the left side of his face, dripping down from his brow bone to his chin. You watched as he brought a hand up slowly, touching his face and bringing it back down to examine it. He stared at the chocolate proof on his fingertips for a few moments as you waited with horrific anticipation.

“Oh, that’s it, doll. You better run.”

The menacing words sent your heart rate soaring. A playful shriek escaped your lungs as you bolted from the kitchen, Bucky on your heel with a growl in the back of his throat.

**_Step 6. Place in the oven at 375 for 10-15 minutes. Makes around 3 dozen._ **

The brownies, already baked and cooling on the counter, were long forgotten as Bucky sat in front of the oven. Arms wrapped around his bent legs, he watched as the orange rolls slowly rose in their muffin tins.

“When are they gonna be done?” he asked you, staring into the depths of the oven like a fortune teller stares into their crystal ball. Like if he looked hard enough, he’d find all the answers to the universe.

“About five more minutes.” You sat down beside him, leaning into his side as the two of you watched his long-forgotten memories rise. You were excited to try the rolls. It was a recipe you had never heard of, which was a rare thing. But most importantly you were excited to try a little piece of Bucky’s life. A piece of the man, the boy, that he used to be before life happened. It felt special and intimate.

“What if they’re not as good as I remember?” The words were soft and honest. You could feel the same sadness and apprehension as earlier that morning drift from him to you. Leaning against him firmer, you took his hand into yours. Threading the warm flesh into your own, you continued to stare into the heat of the oven.

“They will be.”

**_Step 7. Enjoy._ **

The rolls were a beautiful sight. Small, golden brown swirls in a neat, compact shape. The sugar filling had melted down into the bottom of the pan, creating and thick and chewy caramel layer at the bottom of each one. A delicious detail that Bucky said was supposed to happen, but also made it incredibly difficult to pry them from their tins. Still, with the help of a butter knife and a lot of patience, the two of you were able to get most of them out unscathed. A buttery orange scent swirled through the air, causing your mouth to salivate as they sat atop of the wire cooling rack. The two of you sat at the kitchen island, staring at the rolls in silence – you with a look of anticipation, Bucky with a look of confusion.

“What is it?” you asked, wondering if he still doubted that they would hold up to his dream.

“I’m pretty sure they had frosting.”

While the recipe didn’t call for it, Bucky insisted that they always had a frosting on them. After a few minutes of questioning about what _kind_ of frosting it was, or at least what it looked and tasted like, you came to the conclusion that it was most likely a simple glaze. A few minutes later, you each had a plate in front of you with a single, gooey, glistening orange roll sat pristinely on it.

You were starving. You’d been up for nearly five hours and you hadn’t eaten anything yet. But you didn’t dare dig in until Bucky had his first bite. Reaching out tentatively, he picked up the roll, twisting and turning it, inspecting it with a warry expression. Holding your breath, you watched as he brought the baked good to his lips and took a generous bite. He chewed, and chewed, and chewed – each second leaving you with more consternation than the last. When he finally swallowed, he set the rest of the roll down onto his plate and heaved a heavy sigh. Your heart dropped.

“No good?” you asked, fearing you already knew the answer from the way his shoulders bunched over the counter.

Looking to you, tears once again welling in his eyes, Bucky did something unexpected. He kissed you. A firm, chaste kiss that lasted only a moment but formed butterflies in your stomach before he pulled back.

“They’re even better than I remember.”

The proclamation sent your heart soaring. You let out the breath you’d been holding, feeling your own tears of relief and joy begin to well. Blinking them back, you smiled at him, blinded by the dazzling smile you received in turn.

“Well then, let’s eat them all because I am _famished_ ,” you replied, picking up your own orange roll and taking a giant bite. The mix of soft, warm bread, zesty orange, chewy caramel, and sweet frosting set your taste buds alight. As you chewed, you envisioned a ten year old Bucky sitting in his mother’s kitchen on Easter morning. Curly brown hair, all teeth and dimples in his Sunday best and as happy as a kid could be. Why?

Because this was the best damn orange roll you’d ever had.


End file.
